The Name Of The Sword (Book 4)

by J. L. Doty

  By early afternoon he’d uncovered two more ambushes, killing nine more jackals in the process. But mid-afternoon the hoof prints of the jackal troop converged into a single group. He dismounted to examine the tracks more closely, saw that the prints overlapped and seemed pointed in every direction, as if they had milled about for a time discussing something. The prints then led off in a tight column in a different direction. He guessed that scouts foraging ahead had returned to the troop to report something.

  Morgin followed the tracks on foot, Mortiss trailing behind him. A few hundred paces further on he heard a horse splutter and neigh up ahead, though it was difficult to tell how far sound traveled in the forest. He turned back to Mortiss and whispered, “Stay here. I’m going ahead.”

  Morgin reinforced his shadow magic, crouched low and moved forward, stepping carefully from shadow-to-shadow, bush-to-bush and tree-to-tree, using his forest skills to travel silently. The forest lent its shadows well to his kind of stalking, as if he and it were old friends. After a hundred paces he saw bright sunlight glinting off something shiny up ahead. Another 50 paces and he realized he was approaching a large clearing that allowed the sun’s rays to penetrate the dense forest canopy.

  He heard a horse splutter and stomp its hooves, saw more movement in the clearing. He coursed left and right, making sure he didn’t leave a sentry or two at his back. He stopped behind a large boulder about 20 paces from the clearing, peered around it to one side and saw several jackals trying to calm a string of about two dozen horses. Soann’Daeth’Daeye materialized beside him. We sense nothing, my king.

  That many horses meant the entire jackal troop had probably stopped in the clearing, so Rhiannead must be there too. Morgin whispered, “Go back to Rafaellen, tell him to leave one man behind with the horses, and he and the other two should come forward on foot. And tell them to bring their bows, and move quietly.”

  When Rafaellen and his men joined Morgin they all moved forward together, and while they proved to be adept at moving quietly through the forest, one of them must have made some sound or been spotted by a sentry. They were still several paces from the edge of the clearing when the jackal captain called out, “You who walks in shadows, I know you’re out there. If you want the princess back alive, come forward and show yourself.”

  Morgin wasn’t foolish enough to just stand and expose himself until he knew more about the situation. With hand signals Rafaellen instructed his two men to spread out, then he and Morgin moved forward to the edge of the clearing. It proved to be quite large, creating a wide open space with no shadows at hand.

  The jackal captain stood at its center, holding Rhiannead as a shield in front of him, his left paw clutching a clump of dress at the back of her neck, his right holding a knife to her throat. Behind him stood the remaining warriors of his troop holding swords, shields and pikes. He called out again in that yowling, sing-song, dog voice, “Stand forth, I said, or I’ll cut her throat now. You have something I want, and I have something you want. So we can strike a bargain and both walk away from this happy.”

  Far to one side Morgin spotted Mortiss standing perfectly still at the edge of the clearing, a dark, black shadow among those of the forest. He whispered to Rafaellen, “I don’t know what I can do, but tell your men to have their bows ready and be prepared to move.”

  As Rafaellen scrambled away to deliver the message, Morgin drew his sword, stood, and stepped into the clearing, though he didn’t advance. About 20 paces separated him from the jackal captain. “What do I have that you want?”

  The jackal captain smiled, an oddly familiar sight that Morgin recalled from Morddon’s past. “That sword you carry; my queen wants me to bring it back to her. Give it to me and I’ll let you and your princess go unharmed.”

  From that same past Morgin knew better than to trust the jackal. He knew full well that if he gave this dog his sword, it would just butcher him and Rhiannead together. He could make his own shadows and try to reach him, but he had to move from shadow-to-shadow, and with 20 paces to cover, the jackal would slit Rhiannead’s throat long before he got there.

  No, my king, a thought flittered through his mind. All shadows are but one. To walk in one is to walk in them all. Make them where you need them and I’ll show you the way.

  An enraged nether scream from Mortiss broke the silence of the moment, and she burst into the clearing at full charge, headed straight for the warriors arrayed behind their leader. Startled, the jackal captain looked her way and lowered the knife a hand’s breadth from Rhiannead’s throat. Without time to consider his actions, Morgin cast a shadow of magic to one side of the jackal captain, then another about himself. Soann’Daeth’Daeye materialized in the shadow with him, and for a moment he felt as if falling from a great height, then in a heartbeat he stood in the other shadow.

  Mortiss hit the troop of jackal warriors just as Morgin stepped out of the shadow beside their captain. The jackal’s moment of inattention gave Morgin the only chance they had, though the gap between the knife and Rhiannead’s throat left no room for error. Morgin sliced down with his sword and severed the jackal’s wrist, removing paw and knife in a single stroke. The jackal howled and stepped back, gripping the stump of its arm with its remaining paw, blood spurting all over Rhiannead.

  Morgin grabbed her by an arm and spun her toward the edge of the clearing just as two jackal warriors broke loose from the pandemonium around Mortiss. “Run,” he shouted. Then turned to face the jackals.

  The jackal captain backed away while his two warriors advanced, both carrying swords. Morgin had no foolish fantasies about his ability to fight two of them at once, but he had to give Rhiannead time to get clear, so he stood his ground as they attacked.

  They came at him with a nicely coordinated move: one lunged at him with a direct thrust, while the other swing his sword out in a wide arc. Morgin parried the thrust while trying to side-step the other’s swing, knowing he had little hope of success. But an arrow hissed past his ear and thudded into the chest of one just as Mortiss slammed into the other. She rode the jackal down, and as she galloped past him Morgin grabbed her saddle horn, pulled himself clumsily into the saddle, struggled to get hold of her reins and almost ran Rhiannead down at the edge of the clearing before he did so.

  He pulled Mortiss about to shield Rhiannead from the jackals while she crossed the last few paces to the clearing’s edge. As he and Mortiss stood their ground, Rafaellen’s soldiers loosed one arrow after another at the jackals, keeping them occupied. Only when Rhiannead stepped out of the clearing did Morgin spur Mortiss after her.

  Just outside the clearing Morgin and Rhiannead met Rafaellen and his two soldiers. Rhiannead had a small trickle of blood at her throat. Alarmed, Rafaellen examined the wound quickly, then declared. “The bastard’s knife just nicked her. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Then take her,” Morgin said. “Get to the horses and run. I’ll delay the jackals.”

  “No,” Rhiannead pleaded. “They’ll kill you.”

  Morgin had no time to argue with her, so he simply pulled a shadow about him and Mortiss, then spurred her back into the clearing. He’d done this kind of thing before, in another time, another life.

  ••••

  “You must awaken, Your Ladyship. Dinner will be served shortly and your presence is required.”

  Rhianne had trouble shifting her thoughts from the chaos of the clearing in her dream, to the quiet of Castle Decouix in the late afternoon. Sitting on the couch where she’d napped, she opened her eyes and lifted her chin. The young girl who’d awakened her started, her eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth. “Oh dear me,” she said.

  Rhianne asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Geanna stepped around the girl and her eyes widened too. “Oh, my lady, you’ve cut yourself.”

  Rhianne didn’t feel any pain. “I’ve cut myself? Where?”

  Geanna retrieved a small mirror and handed it to Rhianne. Looking at her reflection
she saw a slight trickle of blood on her throat where the jackal captain’s knife had nicked her. No, she thought. That was just a dream.

  Once her handmaidens determined that it was a small, shallow cut, the excitement ended, though they speculated a bit on how she might have cut herself. She now knew she could no longer deny the reality of her dreams. She shared some sort of existence with Rhiannead, and must accept the fact that Morgin had survived Salula and was now trapped in the Kingdom of Dreams. Could she help him fight off these jackals, help him find his way back to the Mortal Plane? Could she coax Rhiannead to be more forceful? Rhianne reminded herself that the girl in her dreams couldn’t be more than 16 years old, and was just as flighty as she had been at that age. But Morgin’s life, and hers too, hung in the balance, so perhaps it was time to take the girl in hand, to guide her down the proper path, though she’d probably have to be a bit forceful in that.

  She mustn’t forget that blade. It had been only a momentary glimpse, there on that shelf of rock in the side of Attunhigh, the blade lifeless, while radiating from Morgin she sensed the power she had always thought came from the blade. Had it always been him? Was the blade nothing more than a piece of lifeless steel? Somehow she had to communicate to Morgin her doubts about its power.

  She suffered Valso through dinner, with his boasting and the occasional taunt, but she dare not steal any food. After dinner the evening proved tedious at best, and when she finally retired for the night, she found it impossible to sleep. Somewhere near midnight she lay in bed listening to the soft snoring of the youngest of her handmaidens sleeping in the other room with Geanna. She could have had the girl dismissed for that, but she needed such sounds this night. The girl wasn’t terribly loud, but she made enough noise to help mask any sounds Rhianne might make.

  She slid back the covers and pulled on a pair of slippers, then retrieved a pretty shawl from a chest at the foot of her bed. It would provide more than one use: she could bundle what few possessions she needed into it, and when it had served its purpose, it was nice enough that she might sell it for a bit of coin. And beneath it she retrieved one of the rolls she’d hidden away. She couldn’t confirm it in the dark, but she suspected that by now it had grown a bit of mold. She’d eaten worse.

  She’d hidden the next roll high in one of her closets behind some shoes, but it was no longer there; one of the maids must have found it. She’d stolen a few pieces of dried meat from the kitchen by sending a kitchen maid on an errand during the slow time just after lunch, and that too had gone missing. Well, she’d go a bit hungry, but perhaps she could bring a few extra scarves to sell.

  She pulled on two sets of small clothes. They were much too fine for her disguise but the parlor maid’s skirt she’d stolen would hide them nicely, and she might need them for warmth. But the maid’s skirt was no longer behind the chest where she’d hidden it, and the moth-eaten, homespun cloak she’d acquired had also gone missing.

  As she sat down on the edge of the bed Geanna emerged from the maid’s quarters carrying a small lamp that cast a faint, dim light across the floor. “Does my lady want for something? I see you’re partially dressed.”

  They’d anticipated her, and Valso had probably not needed any magic to do so. While Valso kept Rhianne busy almost every moment of every day, Geanna and the girls had had hours to scour the suite, and had likely discovered everything she’d squirreled away, one piece at a time—well, all but the single roll hidden beneath the shawl.

  “No, Geanna. I’m just restless. Go back to bed.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  The girl turned, but as she did so the lamp briefly illuminated her face, and Rhianne thought she saw a rather unpleasant smirk there.

  As Geanna closed the door to her chamber, Rhianne sat there and nibbled on the roll.

  13

  The Bite of the Obsidian

  Morgin charged back into the clearing on Mortiss. The chaos and pandemonium she’d created earlier had just begun to clear, with the jackals trying to calm their panicked horses. He charged into their midst, and with a giant nether shadow bucking and kicking horse and jackal alike, the horses panicked again. But an arrow nicked Morgin’s shoulder, reminding him he could die as easily as any jackal. And outnumbered better than twenty to one, that would be his fate if he didn’t move quickly, so he spurred Mortiss out of the clearing. He’d not had time to take an accurate count, but he thought he recalled another four or five jackals down, two Morgin had cut down with his blade, the rest victims of Mortiss’ hooves.

  “Damn you,” the jackal captain shouted. He quickly arrayed six pike-men at the edge of the clearing, facing outward with their pikes set.

  The long handle and blade of a pike would be deadly to a charging horse, so Morgin tried to circle around and come at them from a different angle. But they easily followed the progress of a warhorse charging through the forest and repositioned themselves against him. He had no choice but to withdraw, so he decided to wait for them in the forest, where the deep shadows beneath the canopy would be to his advantage.

  While the jackals regrouped, he rode Mortiss a few hundred paces along the track Rafaellen had taken. He found a large thicket of brush and trees with deep shadows, entered it, reinforced his own shadows, and waited for the jackals. To follow Rafaellen they’d have to ride right past him.

  He heard the jackal captain shouting orders at his dogs, demanding they move faster and get organized. He heard the neigh of skittish horses still not fully calmed after their ordeal with Mortiss. He heard grumbled curses and angry yowls, and one-by-one the jackal warriors led their mounts out of the clearing on foot, then mounted up and regrouped. “Let’s ride hard,” their captain ordered, and they spurred their horses into a gallop.

  Morgin drew his sword and waited in his shadows. The thunder of the jackal horse’s hooves grew to roar as they approached him, and they passed within ten paces of his position. As the last jackal rode by, he spurred Mortiss out of the thicket and into their wake. Riding hard, the jackals constantly glanced right and left and forward, clearly expecting Morgin to attempt some sort of ambush and not looking for a large, black shadow to join them from the rear. With several strides separating him from the last jackal in the troop he spurred Mortiss harder, trying to close the distance between them. Little by little the gap narrowed, Mortiss struggling to fill her lungs with air in time with the staccato beat of her hooves. They were almost side-by-side with the last rider before the jackal finally glanced his way, and in the moment it took him to realize he should have been looking back all along, Morgin swung his sword out and chopped into the dog’s face. He tumbled off the back of his horse, and with no rider his horse slowed and dropped back.

  Morgin took his place and spurred Mortiss harder to catch up with the next jackal. He took that one out in similar fashion, but as his sword bit into the dog’s muzzle one of the jackals ahead looked back and howled out a warning. Their captain reined in his horse, bunching them up, and Mortiss slammed into the horse in front of her. The jackal mount went down while Mortiss staggered and sidestepped, Morgin desperately trying to remain in the saddle. A jackal sabre sliced along his left forearm and he cried out at the pain, though a piece of him thanked the gods it had not been his sword arm. Mortiss donkey-kicked a horse behind her, crushing its skull, then broke free from the melee, and with Morgin clutching at the saddle horn she charged ahead of them up the trail.

  “After him,” the jackal captain shouted.

  ••••

  “We have to help him,” Rhiannead pleaded. Rafaellen had her by the wrist, was all but dragging her to the horses. They’d only covered a few paces when the screams of that nether horse erupted from the clearing again, accompanied by howls from the jackals and the sound of swords clashing. “We can’t just abandon him.”

  Rafaellen stopped and rounded on her. “Your presence will only hinder him, and he’s buying you time to escape. Don’t waste such a precious gift.”

  Realizing he was right
she swallowed her pride and tried to keep up with him as they ran.

  A mounted horseman loomed in front of them, and for an instant Rhiannead thought they’d been outflanked by the jackals. But then she recognized the rider as one of Rafaellen’s soldiers, a string of horses trailing behind him.

  Rafaellen lifted her into a saddle. “We lost one of my men in an ambush, so we have an extra horse for you.”

  The screams and cries from the clearing went silent, then the jackal captain called out a curse, though the distance muffled his words.

  “Stay with me,” Rafaellen said, then spurred his horse. Rhiannead dug her heels in and followed him as he led them back along their track at a gallop, the soldiers following behind her. They rode hard for about a thousand paces, then Rafaellen slowed his horse to a canter and the rest of them did likewise.

  “We have to pace the horses,” he said. “And we’ll count on Lord Mortal to slow the jackals.”

  Behind them they heard a jackal howl, then cries and shouts and the ring of steel blades. Rhiannead saw pain on Rafaellen’s face and realized it troubled him to abandon Lord Mortal. He said, “The wraiths will help him.” His confidant air of command had disappeared.

  “Wraiths?” she asked.

  “Yes. Shadow beings of some kind, shaped like men but with no features. He calls them shadowwraiths, says they are the protectors of this forest, and he commands them.”

  “He commands them?”

  “Yes, he is their lord.”

  Rafaellen opened his mouth as if to say more, but he hesitated for a heartbeat of indecision, saying only, “Keep it at a canter. As long as he harries them they won’t catch us.”

  ••••